The Moonhill Misadventure

How Thirty-Six of Us Learnt That Not All That Glitters Is a Resort

The Calm Before the Cobwebs

I don’t usually rant… well, not in public anyway. But every now and then, life conspires to hand you an experience so bizarrely memorable that it would be almost criminal not to document it.

This particular tale involves thirty-six members of my extended family, a deceptively cheerful travel brochure, an overconfident bus driver, and a resort perched atop a hill that might as well have been Mount Doom.

Consider this less of a review and more of a public service announcement… if you have ever looked at a picturesque resort photo online and thought, “How bad could it really be”… I present to you, the answer.

The road to Munnar was pure magic… a rainbow across the hills, a promise of peace — if only the destination had lived up to the view.

There is something about a family trip that feels both festive and foreboding… a perfect blend of excitement and impending doom. So, when my uncle triumphantly announced that he had booked an entire resort for our Diwali weekend, Moonhill Farm Resorts, Mankulam, I pictured misty hills, quiet verandahs, and evenings filled with tea, laughter, and the faint scent of cardamom in the air.

What I did not picture was myself halfway up a 30-degree incline, clutching a bottle of water like a lifesaving relic, cursing every decision that had led me to this particular hilltop hell.

The plan was simple enough. A month and a half in advance, my uncle had made the booking, assuring us we would have the place practically to ourselves. Twenty rooms, twelve available, all ready for our grand arrival. Thirty-six family members - aunts, uncles, cousins, and a scattering of optimistic youth, were to converge upon this serene retreat nestled in nature.

I, of course, had one request… air conditioning. I am, after all, a woman of civilisation. My uncle confirmed there was one AC room available, and naturally, it was assigned to us. I should have known then that comfort, like common sense, would be in short supply.

The journey began promisingly… a gleaming 40-seater bus adorned with giant Mercedes-Benz logos. We felt rather grand, until closer inspection revealed it was, in fact, a Tata Marco Polo. Still, it was comfortable and neat, and given the narrow roads and hairpin bends ahead, we would soon thank our lucky stars we were not aboard one of those monstrous luxury coaches that require divine intervention to take a corner.

After a cheerful breakfast and a good lunch, we reached… almost. The final 200 metres of the road were too steep and narrow for our bus to navigate. “No problem,” the travel agents had said confidently, “We’ll make arrangements if needed.” What they meant, of course, was: you’ll figure it out when you get there.

The resort sent a single Mahindra jeep to ferry guests up in batches. Noble, yes, but a logistical nightmare when twenty-seven of our thirty-six were senior citizens, a few with mobility issues. Fortunately, a Good Samaritan lent his car for the less mobile folks. Impatience triumphed over prudence, and three of my nieces, full of youthful vigour, declared, “It is only 200 metres, we will walk.” Foolishly inspired, I followed.

Reader, I nearly met my ancestors.

That “200 metres” felt like scaling Everest with a picnic hamper. By the time I reached the top, my lungs were threatening a mutiny, and my knees were singing dirges. My mother, ever the saint, greeted me fresh out the car, with silent sympathy and a large bottle of water. I drank it as though it contained divine forgiveness.

The first thing we saw was a ramp… a near vertical looking slope that led up to the reception. We waited sensibly at the bottom while a sprightly uncle volunteered to brave the ascent and fetch room allotments. When our turn came, my father’s face fell on hearing that our hut, the solitary AC room, was located furthest away, up another winding path. “Of course it is,” I said half-heartedly, already imagining the karmic punishment awaiting us. I tried to soothe tempers by pointing out that our hut featured prominently in the resort photos, which surely meant it was their best, their poster child. Hope springs eternal.

The hut, at first glance, looked charming enough... a verandah enclosed to form a kitchenette and dining nook, a couch, and an ensuite bedroom. Rustic, peaceful. Then I opened the cabinets.

Cobwebs. Spiders. Enough to qualify for an ecological study. Ants all over the sink, dead flies settled at the bottom of the fridge, mysterious stains that defied taxonomy. The bedroom offered little reprieve… torn bedsheets, lumpy pillows, mildew, and a duvet that looked like it had survived multiple wars and lost them all, a rough yellow wool blanket that looked so worn I used it as a coversheet for the floor mattress they provided, since there was no extra cot. The headboard wore a handsome shawl of cobwebs. Ants held conventions in the window corners. The bathroom was “relatively fine,” by which I mean it had fewer living occupants than the kitchen.

When my mother, eternal optimist, went searching for the promised kettle, she found none. The “exclusive kettle” our uncle had announced so proudly during room allotments turned out to be mythical. When she called to complain, a harried staffer appeared with a kettle, a few teabags, some coffee sachets, and sugar… no milk, no cups. “Can we get some milk?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. And soon enough, a pouch of raw Milma milk arrived, the kind that needed boiling. We had no pot. The induction stove was hidden in a spider-guarded cabinet, and there were no utensils. My mother sighed, made black tea, and then, as is her nature, made black tea for the entire neighbourhood of huts.

By evening it was clear that ours was not an isolated disaster. Every hut suffered the same neglect. The pool, which in photos resembled a slice of Santorini, was empty and cracked, a sad amphitheatre of disappointment. “There’s another pool,” they told us the next day. “We’ll chlorinate it if you want to use it.” The thought alone was enough to quash any enthusiasm for swimming.

And yet, the setting was stunning. Hills rolling into the distance, air crisp and cool, the sort of landscape that deserved soft jazz, warm lights, and the quiet clink of teacups. With a little maintenance, it could have been magical. Instead, it felt abandoned to the spiders.

We decided to salvage what we could. That night, the staff managed two foldable, slightly rusty grills, and my chef uncle took charge of the barbecue. Smoke curled into the evening; with delicious food courtesy of my chef uncle laughter returned, and for a short while the place almost redeemed itself.

But by morning, reality returned… Accessibility was poor, the elders were exhausted from the climbs, and the bus could not reach the scenic spots we had hoped to visit. The travel agents who had promised alternative arrangements backpedalled neatly, which led to a tiff. After a round of practical conversations, we cut the trip short. To the resort’s credit, they refunded the second night. The bus agents agreed to accept a little less, a token for the jeeps we had to hire on a fruitless night run to see elephants at a watering hole at Aanakulam.

As we wound back down those treacherous bends, I looked up at Moonhill Farm… perched beautifully on its slope, framed by hills and sky, it was a postcard of what could have been. The bones are good, the location is lovely, the staff we met, were polite and helpful within very limited means. But care and upkeep were nowhere to be found.

It truly is a place with potential… if only someone cared enough to sweep away the cobwebs, both literal and metaphorical.